The Hummingbird Jar
by Astrasia
Summary: Harry Potter was born to be a hero. He was supposed to be a savior; a protector of unparalleled skill. The prophecy and the scar on his forehead ensured that. After the war, when everyone else is moving on, Harry finds a new project to occupy his time.
1. Chapter 1

Astrasia: Well first fic and all that, no need to be kind if you think it's worth your time to review though. I can take it! :P And as a warning, in later chapters it will be Yaoi, slash, whatever you want to call it. If you're not fond of it, consider this your last warning because I won't be held responsible.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise probably belongs to JK. Rowling.

- - line - -

November 5, 1998, Russia.

Harry Potter.

It was a name that meant nearly everything to the wizarding world of today. The Boy Who Lived, their Savior, the leader of The Golden Trio. Practically their God. Or so the Daily Prophet had practically been proclaiming since the second of May 1998.

On the back of an autobiography somewhere, written by a certain Rita Skeeter so probably not all that accurate, were the words that had become the slogan of the Battle of Hogwarts.

"_I know that you are preparing to fight. Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood. Give me Harry Potter, and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter and you will be rewarded. You have until midnight._"

It was more than a little ironic that the words chosen by the Dark Lord were chosen for the most drama and drivel-filled book in existence. Where the blonde animagus had probably taken five years off his age to add to the melodrama.

After that battle, the Weasleys had become the poster-family for war victims. A statue was dedicated to Severus Snape in St. Mungo's, apparently he had sent rare and difficult to make potions there during his time at Hogwarts. Hermione returned to Hogwarts for her seventh year, along with Ron of course. Professor McGonagall became Headmistress of Hogwarts, and for some reason unknown, banned Witch Weekly on Hogwarts grounds.

Harry had lasted two weeks into his Seventh year before he had tired of everything.

Suddenly, the entire world had turned into a pack of Colin Creeveys. It was as if the world had sensed his irritatingly adorable absence and decided to take his place. Without the cute factor. Around every corner, cameras flashed in his face and reporters that made Skeeter look tame practically assaulted his person.

It had gotten to the stage whereby McGonagall nearly had to reinforce the old barriers from the war when Harry decided to call it quits and go underground.

For whatever had possessed him at the time, Harry had moved to a secluded forest in central Russia. His only contact with the outside world being the trips he made to Diagon Alley every fortnight for supplies. After a great deal of research, Harry had imitated the wards around Hogwarts and improved them so nobody except those who he wanted to find him could do so.

It had been a hassle to evict the old hag Babayaga, who despite being around since medieval times was certainly not as dead as the rumours would lead one to believe, especially when her house grew legs and started dodging his spells, but the job had been done eventually.

"Harry dear boy, you must stop living like this. Hiding away does nobody any good." The familiar, kindly voice of Albus Dumbledore chided the green-eyed boy fondly from the wall, where the normally-empty portrait hung.

"Professor Dumbledore, it's good to see you again. How did Gryffindor do against Slytherin in the last match?" Harry, ignoring the old man's words, asked enthusiastically. He really missed the sport, probably more than he missed most people.

"Slytherin annihilated them, I'm sorry to say. Minerva was quite upset about it too, she really startled Fawkes. I'm not sure he has ever heard such strong language." Dumbledore was stroking his sabled beard in amusement, watching as Harry bustled around the cluttered living room pretending to clean. By now the ex-Headmaster had resigned himself to the fact that no matter what title or awards you give a teenage boy, he will never clean unless under an Imperius.

"Ron again? You can say it, Hermione dropped by last week to complain about his confidence or something. I stopped listening after a while." Harry mused, hiding a spare sock underneath an overstuffed cushion that probably didn't belong to the mottled grey couch it was perched on.

"Yes, something to that effect. But I believe it would be bad form to repeat the words of the Headmistress exactly." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled a little and the corner of his mouth twitched. Harry smothered a smirk, he really wanted to know what the Scottish woman had to say about his red-haired friend but knew better than to push his old Professor.

The portrait Dumbledore was currently occupying was one of a pair. The other was in it's rightful place in the Headmistress' office. McGonogall had given Harry the other to keep in contact, and to set him work from the seventh year course and more. Harry, the Headmistress had discovered, might not have had the best aptitude for written exams but had wandwork comparable only to the great Dumbledore himself.

After the war, Harry had busied himself in more... active pursuits in magic. Wards, hexes, spells, jinxes... Anything that occupied his mind from the burning, nagging sensation that filled it when left alone too long.

"I have a theory." The out-of-the-blue statement, while completely characteristic of Albus Dumbledore, threw Harry off for a moment before he blinked twice, stupidly, and waited for the professor to continue.

"You still feel as if you have something you need to do, yes?" The question was meant kindly, but it still irritated the young wizard, who nodded anyway. Yes he felt as if there was something he needed to do, it was always there at the back of his mind, digging away like some sort of parasitic insect that just wouldn't _go away._

"You are only eighteen. An adult in both the world of Muggles and Wizards. But in my eyes you are still a child. A child that had immense pressure thrust upon him at a young age, and now that it's gone you have nothing to occupy your mind with. You understand this don't you? That in this world, there is nothing left that you _have _to do. And rather a lot of things you _can _do." Dumbledore paced around within his frame slowly, only encouraging the idea forming in Harry's head that this portrait wanted something from him.

"I guess. I mean, Voldemort's gone now. Kingsley captured most of the Death Eaters. Ron is going to marry Hermione." Harry frowned, not sure why none of this made him... happy. Sure, he was content and he would rather all of the latter _happened_ but the emptiness just wouldn't leave.

"Harry you are a great wizard. Greater than you think you are, especially now. Few wizards as great as you were content to sit as idle as I had. Merlin, Grindelwald, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, even Slytherin and Tom Riddle himself are perfectly good examples. My dear boy, you are simply bored out of your mind." The older wizard laced his fingers together triumphantly, looking as if this revelation would up and prevent world hunger.

"Er, I still don't want to go out there Professor. Unlike Lockhart, I find handing out autographs boring." Harry sighed, thinking this was just another attempt of the slightly batty old Headmaster to get him out of the house.

"My dear boy, I believe I said _this _world has nothing for you." Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling almost mischievously, but a sense of elation thrummed through Harry's chest. This might actually be going somewhere useful for a change.

"Do you remember, during the brief time you spent running through the Department of Mysteries, the Time Room?" The elder wizard's head inclined slightly, and a pecualiar shine took over his half-moon spectacles.

"Um, yeah. That was the place where the Death Eater's head got stuck in that weird bell jar. The one that had the egg... hummingbird thing in it. The room was filled with clocks." Harry supplied, feeling a little foolish about not knowing a little more, but was surprised when the Professor nodded contentedly.

"Good, good. Do you remember what Ms. Granger once told you about her Time Turner?" This question seemed so off-topic that Harry's head swam a little, but he nodded feebly. He never would forget any adventure of theirs that involved Sirius Black after all.

"Yeah. She said not to let your past-self see you... but I did that and I'm fine... And not to change things too much or you will mess time up. Or something." Harry mumbled, not really sure how else to put it. Dumbledore didn't seem bothered by the unprecise information, but rather hummed triumphantly as Harry waited expectantly.

"Yes my dear boy. But how did the bell jar make sense? Watching time itself rewind, as long as it is contained within that bell jar, should not theoretically be allowed to happen." Harry's head was starting to hurt. He never did enjoy it when Dumbledore tried to make him think. The old man put far too much effort into that nowadays.

"Er... Was there some sort of ward around it? No, definitely not. I've studied those a good bit. Um... I give up?" Harry chanced his arm, tiring of the game quickly.

"Use your head, that is why you have it. Now, how do muggles remove the effect of an object's mass from an area?" Harry gave up in his efforts to convince Dumbledore to tell him anything, and just went with it.

"They use a vacuum, right? Suck all the air out of something until there's nothing left and seal it fast." Harry answered, running a hand through his messy hair distractedly before removing it quickly. A habit the boy-who-lived noticed he had in common with his father. Since seeing his father in action in the pensieve, and how much of a prat he looked doing it, had convinced him to try to stop.

"Yes, now would you consider that vacuum a part of the world around it?"

"No, I guess not. If there's no normal gravity and air and stuff."

"And in this vacuum you can see a bowling ball and a feather fall from the same height at the same speed, whereas out in the 'real world' such a thing is generally impossible."

"Yeah, I guess. Did you take Muggle Studies, Professor?"

"The bell jar is the same as that vacuum. Once tampered with enough, it disobeys laws of magic. what do you suppose would happen if someone reversed the effects of the bell jar? Say, the charm effected everything outside itself rather than in?" Dumbledore laced his fingers together once more, and Harry was starting to get an idea where this was going. Finally.

"Wouldn't time outside the bell jar reverse? And then go forward again, and repeat all over again. And everything inside the bell jar..." Recognition must have dawned on the scarred boy's face, because Dumbledore smiled benignly.

"Would stay the same. So a person could, with the right materials, travel to a different time period. But, if a person travels in this way, they are ripped from their own time. They exist in their chosen time line much more substantially than using a time turner. Your being will be laced into the new timeline, and effectively create an entirely different world just by your presence." Dumbledore explained jovially.

Harry frowned, the area just behind his temple beginning to throb.

"So any changes made back then..." Harry figured, trying to follow the genius' line of thought.

"Will have no effect on this now." Dumbledore's clear blue eyes twinkled delightedly, watching the cogs turn in Harry's brain with satisfaction.

"And I have a feeling you already know what I am going to ask you to do." The merriness was gone from the portrait's voice, and Harry found himself leaning forward to hear what the old man had to say.

Maybe it was the old 'Hero Complex' acting up, but for some reason the idea of having something solid to do, a _purpose _made him want to agree to whatever the aged portrait had to tell him. What was a 'hero' without anything to do anyway?

- - Line - -

September 1, 1938, Hogwarts Castle.

Tom Marvolo Riddle felt ridiculously out of place, yet remarkably at home at the same time. Himself and countless other first years were standing in an awkwardly shuffling line behind a man the young boy had already learned to dislike. Albus Dumbledore, who is apparently the Transfiguration Professor at Hogwarts, and the Deputy Headmaster.

The eyes of hundreds of students, all older than they were, were watching with mild interest as the first years scuffled quickly after the auburn-haired man with an odd fashion sense.

_Older, but not better_. A snide voice reminded Tom quickly. It was probably true. He was smarter, and better than all those _muggle _children that were older than him. It stands to reason that he is probably similarly gifted in the magical arts, seeing as none of the other first years seemed to have tried any of the spells in the school books yet.

Tom himself hadn't been able to wait. He had put his wand to very good use before the Ministry thought to put the Trace on poor orphan Riddle. Dennis Bishop could attest to it, if he ever loosened the tongue that had been tied since Tom's first, wandless experiment on that boy and little Amy Benson.

_"-__virtues_  
><em>In the ones they had to teach.<em>

_By Gryffindor, the bravest were_  
><em>Prized far beyond the rest;<em>  
><em>For Ravenclaw, the cleverest<em>  
><em>Would always be the best;<em>

_For Hufflepuff, hard workers were_  
><em>Most worthy of admission;<em>  
><em>And power-hungry Slytherin<em>  
><em>Loved those of great ambition.<em>  
><em>While still alive they did divide<em>  
><em>Their favourites from the throng,<em>  
><em>Yet how to pick the worthy ones<em>  
><em>When they were dead and gone?<em>

_Twas Gryffindor who found the way,_  
><em>He whipped me off his head<em>  
><em>The founders put some brains in me<em>  
><em>So I could choose instead!<em>

_Now slip me snug about your ears,_  
><em>I've never yet been wrong,<em>  
><em>I'll have a look inside your mind<em>  
><em>And tell where you belong!"<em>

Tom Riddle allowed his eyes to snap back to where a mouldy-looking hat had finished singing, and cringed in disgust when he realised he had to put it on his head. The were probably traces of the bubonic plague still living in it.

The shrewd first year allowed his eyes to scan the Great Hall, or more particularly the Head table where the teachers sat. Each of the teachers were sitting in the assigned seats for their subject, as was custom for the Welcoming Feast. Or so said Hogwarts: A History when Tom had read it.

The Potions Professor was a large man, nearly as round as he was tall, with a seamy brow and sparse blonde hair. A transparent ghost was drifting dazedly three feet above the History of Magic post. Of course there was Dumbledore, who he recognised, who taught Transfiguration... A wizened-looking old lady was sitting in the Defense Against the Dark Arts spot, but directly next to her was a seat that didn't belong. A young man with wild dark hair and slightly lop-sided glasses sat, watching the Sorting with avid amusement.

"Malfoy, Abraxas!" The first name for Sorting was called out by the Headmaster, who had led the first years into the Great Hall himself. Armando Dippet, a harmless sort but hardly the most inspiring Headmaster Hogwarts had seen. He was ancient now, soon to enter his two hundred and nineties.

Tom allowed his eyes to slide from the young man to watch the Sorting curiously, having only read about the proceedings beforehand. There had been an oddly hushed silence and quiet whispers when the name had been called out. A tall boy, about four inches over Tom himself who was not himself short, with high aristocratic cheekbones, light silvery hair and an uneasy expression sat on the rickety stool. The Sorting Hat perched perfectly on his head, pausing only a moment before announcing 'Slytherin' to the now-relieved-looking boy.

'Slytherin,' Tom thought as the line shortened considerably before him. 'It seems it is the only house with a bit of... bite to it.' Especially when looking at the Hufflepuff table. If there ever looked to be a useless lot it was them, with their blank eyes and overly-white smiles that nearly blinded the rest of the Hall.

The Sorting appeared to have an unusual order to it. Where it had once been alphabetical, it seemed parentage had come to play a certain part. Tom noticed this quickly as the children dressed in the newest clothes, walking with the easiest gait, were called first. There was something there he didn't know, and Tom hated not knowing anything.

The line dwindled, and Tom was quickly left standing with children that had been born into purely Muggle families. He could tell by the way they fidgeted, and the flash of Muggle clothes they wore beneath their robes when they moved too suddenly.

"Riddle, Tom!" There was no hush upon his name being called out as there had been for the Malfoy. To them, Tom was another normal kid who would be another average student. The way the Sorting Hat fell over his ears, it hadn't fallen over Malfoy's, the way the other students brushed him off... It all infuriated him.

To the point where he ignored the murmurs of the Hat in his head and continued his furious train of thought.

Until it occurred to him. Nobody here would ever know about what he had done in the orphanage, execpt the fool Dumbledorre but even he didn't know the extent, so why shouldn't he go along with it? Poor orphan Riddle was about to become the best student Hogwarts had ever seen. And glean every last drop of information he could from them while he's at it..

'Well there's certainly no doubt about where you're going.' Tom, who hadn't been listening to the Hat until this point, focused solely on the hat as the rip near it's brim opened wide.

"Slytherin!"

Now the Great Hall was quiet. The same hushed quiet it had been when Malfoy's name had been called out, but for a different reason. Suddenly, as Tom Riddle turned to face the Slytherin table, he realised just how many of those people who had the newest of everthing were sitting there.

Pretending to look surprised and a little embarrassed, Tom allowed his eyes to slide to the floor and fidgeted with his sleeve as he had seen the other children do. This seemed to appease the majority of the Slytherins, who lost interest fairly quickly and went back to watching the Sorting. Tom slid quickly into one of the few remaining seats, noting with a hidden smirk that Malfoy was sitting next to him.

Tom felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck and, slowly so as not to arouse too much suspicion, turned to face whoever was staring at him so intensely. It was the young man who was sitting next to the DADA Professor. His forest green eyes didn't look away as they met Tom's own, he only quirked a brow at the expression on Tom's face. The first year reschooled his expression quickly, not letting any of his suspicious thoughts show.

The eleven year old scowled just as quickly again when the man smirked, and a lock of hair shifted on his forehead. Tom's eyes must have widened upon seeing the lightening-shaped scar, because the Professor (that must be what he is) grinned and patted his hair down securely again before turning to talk animatedly with the DADA Professor next to him.

Tom, noting with irritation that he had been dismissed, turned to make small-talk with the tall blonde boy that had been watching the exchange with a bemused expression on his face.

Hogwarts, Tom decided, would have to grow used to the idea that this eleven year old was going to turn it upside-down.

- - line - -

Astrasia: Well is it good, bad, worth updating at all? I'd really appreciate any feedback, and thanks to anyone who bothered reading to the end of this chapter!


	2. Chapter 2

Astrasia: Thanks so much to _Barranca, ShadowofaDarkSlytherin, TenshiBabe, Pitch Black Summer, dalistar123, Chihiro Namikaze, Willow Isaacs, itachisgurl93, Lilitalamo_ and _bluekat5_ for the wonderful reviews! I forgot to mention at the start of the first chapter that half of this story will take place in the past and the other in the future simultaneously.

This means that Harry's efforts to get to the past will be catalogued in part of each update, and the events of the past will be in the other. I hop this clears it up for people, in case you were wondering how Harry actually got to the past and all that...

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise probably belongs to JK. Rowling.

- - line - -

1998, Russia.

Harry eyed his slightly dusty book shelves, wishing there was some way to just get all the information he needed into his head without any effort. Studying had always been Hermione's thing, and Harry had always made a point to 'borrow' the notes that were a by-product of that effort.

The thought of the thick, leather-bound tomes almost made him consider cleaning the hut-turned-cottage. The sorry state Harry had left the kitchen in, the dishes from last night's dinner piled high in the sink and armies of insects hiding in the moldings, had him reconsidering.

There were three rooms in Harry's home. The kitchen (deemed uninhabitable and unsanitary by Hermione), the bathroom (even worse) and the living room that doubled as a bedroom, which was apparently dangerous to be in. Harry didn't think the stacks of books and newspapers were piled all _that _high. And you could even see the odd floral carpet if you nudged some of the robes strewn across the floor out of the way.

What dominated this living room however, was the floor to ceiling bookshelf running across the eastern wall. In each rung there was a full layer of books with two or three others lying horizontally on top of them. Peeling gold cursive writing caused the older books to stand out from the newer, which although still leather-bound, had stamped block letters highlighting the binding.

Harry couldn't understand why people had suddenly decided to send him so many books. It wasn't as if he had ever been the bookish sort, so maybe it was the glasses. Or defeating Voldemort. Dumbledore started having the same problem after defeating Grindelwald, right?

Dumbledore. Even dead, the man's brain was something else. Harry had missed working towards a goal, even if that goal was to try and improve the childhood of the man who destroyed the lives of so many in the wizarding world. But sadly spells learned in classes at Hogwarts were not going to cut it for this mission.

"Harry, you must dust this portrait soon. I feel as if I am going to contract a severe bout of hayfever whenever I drop by for a visit." The polite voice of the Headmaster coughed from his perch above the cinereal granite fireplace.

The Boy-Who-Lived turned, a tattered sheepskin volume clasped in his hand, to see Dumbledore rubbing his crooked nose uncomfortably.

"Hayfever isn't contagious, Professor." Harry explained, not really sure whether he should go into the mechanics of muggle ailments or not. And that hayfever had nothing to do with dust...

"Be that as it may, have you been working on anything useful? I have quite the interest in our little experiment you know." Dumbledore laced his fingers together in amusement as Harry shuffled sheepishly from one foot to the other.

"It's not that I haven't been working on anything, I just don't know where to start! People keep sending me these useless books, and it's hard to seperate the completely useless ones from the mostly-useless." Harry waved his chosen book tentatively, _"The Strengths and Weaknesses of Darke Magyk",_ and blanched upon being on the recieving end of Dumbledore's amused twinkling eyes.

"Dear boy, do you remember when you attempted to use the Cruciatus on Ms. Lestrange? It simply was not up to par with the spell a Dark Wizard may have cast in the same situation. Which is a good thing. You do not need dark magic to be around young Tom. I am afraid your lack of talent for it might discourage him as it is." Harry couldn't decide whether the chuckle that followed that statement aroused feelings of amusement or irritation inside him.

"Well then, if I do manage to get to that bell jar at some point how am I _supposed _to keep his attention? I don't think 'love' is a good enough answer for this one, no offense Professor." The image of Harry hugging a full-grown Voldemort sprung to mind, snake-face intact, and the scarred boy felt bile rising in his throat.

"Oh no. I'm not implying that at all, if anything Tom would kill you faster if you tried that in the beginning. What I am trying to say is, you have chosen to walk the path of Light. Trying to use Dark spells now will not get you very far. Tom, while he didn't use Light magic himself, can appreciate raw power in all it's forms. Specific Light spells, or even spells or hexes that could fall into either category, should be what you are aiming for." This simple explanation had Harry flushing to the roots of his hair. He really should have known that seeing as Light and Dark, and Good and Evil were basically what he had been raised on since he had entered the wizarding world.

Harry shoved the book indelicately back in it's rightful place. Next to the other obscure publications he would probably never open again.

"Why can't I just go even further back in time and take him from the orphanage? It sounds a lot easier, and safer." Harry griped, not understanding why it was that the entire 'plan' had to enfold in Hogwarts.

"I agree that it would work in the beginning, but I eventually decided against it. No person is born evil, I agree, but there is a certain _crossed wire_ in Tom's brain. A lust for power not uncommon in men, but rarely heard of with his talent. That would be impossible to erase given his genetics, but it is possible to contain." The twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes was rapidly turning into a spark, and Harry got the unshakeable feeling that he was making this up as he went along.

"Er, I still don't see why this means I have to meet him later." Harry mumbled, kicking a bottle of firewhiskey that Dumbledore had undoubtedly spotted already behind the couch.

"Your effect in his early years, while it would be a good one, will have grown stale upon his entry to Hogwarts. You would have been moulding his life _before _magic. Please understand that Tom thought of his life before magic and afterwards as two completely different lives. You will be, for lack of a better word, _mundane_. By the time we are finished here, you will have spells and abilities that first year Tom will recognise as superior to his own. Power is the only thing he respects Harry. You raising him from too young, with as much power as you are going to have, will make you become commonplace. Not a rarity he is going to continue examining as he grows older." Dumbledore was appealing to Tom's intelligence rather than his capacity to love, which surprised Harry a little bit. But he supposed that trust tends to ebb when the person in question had succeeded in orchestrating your death in a sense.

Even Dumbledore's seemingly-endless supply.

"So you're sending me to him in his first year because... He'll get bored of me?" Harry questioned carefully, presuming that to be the case judging by the boy's later twisted personality as Voldemort.

"Theoretically, yes. He will never be a normal, warm, loving child, but I believe he has the capacity to be a good one." Dumbledore laced his fingers together triumphantly, ignoring the imperceptibly undesirable items Harry kept kicking behind various pieces of furniture.

"Well, you're the genius Professor. If he kills me, tell Hermione I read all the books in this library. That should give her something to do." Harry sighed, not sure if his questionable muggle magazines were hidden completely. Wizards never did get _those _magazines right, but they would be scandalized by the muggle variety. Moving or not, some things were better the old-fashioned way. Meaning air-brushed to hell with little clothing.

"Harry, I believe there is somebody you should meet." Harry's startled chartreuse eyes slipped quickly from the busty brunette's on the glossy magazine cover to meet Dumbledore's once more.

Unsurprisingly, Harry had a feeling this little 'project' of his was either going to drain him of all his energy or kill him.

- - line - -

1938, Hogwarts Castle.

Tom didn't sleep that night after the Sorting Ceremony. It was the combined effect of sharing a room with four strangers and the lapping sound of the lake above the Slytherin dungeons that caused it, he was sure.

That, and the antique silver lanterns that creaked irritatingly overhead, and the combined snores of two of his room mates hadn't encouraged anything either.

The only accommodating aspect of the Slytherin Boys' dorms were the slightly worn four-poster beds and veridian silk hangings.

"Ah, you're already awake. Early riser are you?" Tom, who had been reading quietly through the night in bed after resigning himself to a lost night of sleep, glanced at the boy who spoke with relative apathy. Forcing a pleasing smile onto his face, Tom nodded placatingly at the blonde boy who had become his room mate.

After a good night's sleep (and Tom knew he had one, seeing as he had spent half of it snoring like Ms. Cole's sewing machine) Abraxas Malfoy's hair looked as if a birdhad made a nest in it. Seeing as the boy's hair was longer than what was generally seen as modest, Tom's own hair was a perfect example, Malfoy had succeeded in mimicking a porcupine.

"Not a talker? What, are you scared or something? Because I swear whatever Arcturus said about me, probably isn't true!" Abraxas motioned towards the sleeping lump (the other snorer, Tom noted with irascibility) with a long toned arm that Tom secretly envied.

"Oh no, it's nothing like that I assure you." Tom closed his book with a snap, deciding to play up to who was obviously going to be someone popular in the year. In first year anyway, Tom was convinced that by the time he himself was in fourth year those tables will have turned.

"So you _can _talk. I've got to ask, are you a muggle-born? Because we don't get many of those in here." Tom blinked slowly, noticing how the friendly tone sounded a little strained in Abraxas' voice all of a sudden.

"No." Tom lied, knowing fully well that he was a half-blood. Something about the way the question was asked had made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and if there was one thing Tom was good at it was self-preservation. He glanced out the window at the now-visible sun. Not too much longer until breakfast.

"Oh good, I was just wondering about the clothes. But I guess there _are _wizards like the Weasleys around after all." Abraxas shrugged, and Tom pieced what was happening together. Normal people, _muggles_, were looked down upon here. Tom supposed since wizards were stronger and smarter, it probably made sense. It would explain his constant need to disengage with the muggles of Wool's orphanage. They weren't worth his time, and clearly this young man thought so too.

"I'm an orphan. My blood's fine though." Tom shrugged his shoulders a little, looking as embarrassed as he could. His acting was perfecting itself the longer he talked.

"Sorry mate, Grindelwald?" Abraxas asked suddenly, not sounding all that sorry as he ran a comb through his hair quickly. Tom watched with fascination before realising he had been asked a question he really didn't understand.

"Excuse me?" Tom hoped that whatever a Grindelwald was, it wasn't a disease. The last thing he needed before he let the school know about his ability was for everyone to think he had something weird wrong with him.

"Guess not. He's some German guy that's been getting pretty big lately. Some sort of Dark wizard, hasn't been in the paper much yet but my Dad reckons he'll have a war on his hands in a few years. Most people probably don't know who he is yet though, but some people think he's going to be even stronger than Dumbledore!" Now finished with his hair, Abraxas stripped out of his nightclothes shamelessly and searched through his trunk for school robes. Tom was suddenly rather glad he had changed into his robes at dawn.

"And Dumbledore's strong?" Tom found that hard to believe. The man wore magenta and tied bells around the end of his beard. Abraxas, despite how much of a rumourmonger he was turning out to be, probably had a few screws loose.

"And a genius too, apparently. Discovered all those uses for dragon's blood, can't remember how many there were, but there were a lot." Abraxas supplied, throwing a stray boot at what was apparently Arcturus' bed.

"Wake up, we've got Transfiguration first thing and I don't want to piss old Dumbledore off. He's supposed to go pretty hard on us Slytherins." Tom assumed the last bit of information was for him, and nodded appropriately. That piece of information should be fairly useful anyway.

Arcturus Black, grumbling incoherently, tossed the boot back in Abraxas' direction. He missed entirely and hit another room mate's toad that croaked loudly.

"You'd better not try out for Quidditch next year!" Malfoy laughed, his head tilted back as he laughed jovially. Tom watched in mild fascination as Arcturus stumbled to his feet dazedly, not truly understanding what Abraxas had said.

Tom stayed quiet, folding his hands neatly in his lap as he watched the two larger boys amble aimlessly about the room.

The soft sound of water lapping above his head had ceased feeling claustrophobic once the room had filled with the sound of his room mates voices. Maybe he could get a few minutes sleep before...

"Hey Tom, move it before all the good food is taken!" Abraxas bellowed, directly in the young Slytherin's ear. His jaw tightening, Tom nodded once more with a fake smile he doubted anyone was stupid enough not to notice.

Abraxas grabbed his foot and hauled him off the bed. Apparently one person _was _stupid enough. And he had decided to be Tom's new friend. Clenching his teeth as he followed the chatty blonde boy and the surly Black, Tom inwardly couldn't wait to learn magic just so he could shut those two up.

- - line - -

In truth, even after three days, Tom was still acclimatizing to life in Hogwarts. While he loved magic instantly, how could he not, the building itself still unnerved him. It had an intense aura the young Parselmouth wasn't sure the other children in his year could sense.

The ghosts grounded to the castle, the stairwells that moved of their own accord and the rooms that appeared when they felt like it bothered Tom. He knew they shouldn't, nobody else seemed to be bothered by the fact that they seemed to be inhabiting a _living building_. What if the castle suddenly decided it didn't like him?

A childish thought, until the possibility of the sentient building removing an entire staircase rather than one trick step the next time you climbed it occurred to you. The castle brimmed with life. Life that Tom couldn't control, and wasn't sure he ever would be able to.

"Why do the stupid herbology greenhouses have to be so far from the dungeons?" Abraxas complained, kicking open the door of the Entrance Hall and leading the three-man group into the bitter early-Autumn wind of Scotland.

Neither Tom nor Arcturus deigned his exclamation worthy of an answer. It was something Tom had grown to like about Abraxas' quiet cousin. He could shut his mouth and appreciate the lack of idiocy it entailed.

Tom scuffed his shoe against the asperous gravel path leading towards Greenhouse One. Outside the castle, the pressure pushing in from all sides ceased constricting Tom's lithe form. It would take a little getting used to.

Glancing up, Tom eyed the edge of the Forbidden Forest as Malfoy continued his aimless rambling. Some branches of the trees reached skywards like gnarled claws, trembling occasionally when a gust of wind pushed through their limbs or small ligneous creatures of unusual proportions darted greedily across their boughs.

"You three are just in time, hurry in, hurry in!" The voice that spoke sounded theatrical, as if it belonged on the old West End shows that ancient people attended. Baritone and polished.

Professor Herbert Beery, one of the younger teachers in Hogwarts, and by far the most dramatic. Tom recognised him as the man who had been sitting at the end of the Professors' Table during the Welcoming Feast wearing a Shakespearean ensemble. He looked almost as obnoxious as old Dumbledore, complete with thick luxurious black curls and a pencil-thin mustache that looked as if it had been trimmed just that morning. It probably had.

Tom allowed himself to be swept inside the Greenhouse, eyes wide as he took in his surroundings. Tendrils of vegetation creeped across the ceiling and potted plants of every colour lined the walls and desks. Grimy-looking silver buckets were bouncing in every seat placement.

"Hurry now, you will find that for today you will have your name on the seat you are assigned. The person next to you will be your partner for the rest of the term. No switching or complaining, and nobody is sitting next to anyone of the same House." Beery explained, taking his place next to a large chalkboard at the front of the room as the three boys filed into their assigned seats with barely-contained irritation.

They had Herbology with the Hufflepuffs.

Tom slid into his seat next to a tall slim girl with what looked to be a mane the colour of honey on her head. It didn't curl or frizz exactly, it just seemed to move out away from her head on it's own.

"Now, who can tell me what is in these buckets? Don't touch, first years aren't supposed to get into that until next year." Beery started immediately with a lazy wave of his wand. The door of the Greenhouse snapped shut on the horrified faces of two Hufflepuff boys that had been a few minutes late. He didn't open it.

Tom raised his hand quickly after a glance at the globular herbs that seemed to be throwing themselves against the side of the bucket. Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw Abraxas do the same from his perch next to a skinny boy with a heart shaped face.

The girl sitting next to Tom didn't even look in the bucket.

"You. Mr. Riddle." Beery waved his hand in Tom's general direction, it had looked more like he was pointing at the blonde girl next to him, but the girl's mouth stayed shut and Tom preened himself quickly. He was ready to make every teacher in this school love him.

"Those are Leaping Toadstools sir." But he wasn't going to overdo it. That was a key way to make the younger professors hate him.

"Correct. Tell me how to catch them... Mr. Black!" The questions continued. He was testing them, to see who had at least read through the books before coming to Hogwarts. It wasn't completely fair, but it certainly gave Tom a self-gratified feeling when the others humiliated themselves.

A movement on the grounds caught Tom's eye as Beery continued his onslaught. Turning his head imperceptably, Tom watched as the youngest member of staff in Hogwarts levitated an enormous metal casket towards the Quidditch pitch. Even from the Greenhouse, Tom could make out his unruly mop of black hair and rounded glasses.

"That's Professor Peverell. He's the new Head of Quidditch, but he's the assistant DADA Professor too." The girl next to Tom whispered, noticing where the young boy was looking. Tom's head turned quickly to look his Herbology partner in the eye.

Her eyes were an odd shade of blue, and a little unfocused. Dazed even. She had a straight nose sprinkled with freckles and a complacent feel about her.

"You looked like you wanted to know." She shrugged easily, dragging her eyes a little forcefully back to where Beery was screeching at a kid called McLaggen for not knowing the uses of Leaping Toadstool spores.

Tom nodded, unsure of how else to respond to the odd girl, and watched the scene before him with perverted amusement. After all, he knew the answer that McLaggen obviously didn't.

- - line - -

Astrasia: I hope this turned out alright, I'm not the best self-editor so if there's any mistakes I'd appreciate the alert! Or at least psychological forgiveness. Thanks to everyone that read to the end of this chapter, you're all great! ^-^


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